WILD FLOWERS. 
77 
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off 
In music to the skies, and there are lost, 
These ever-steaming odors seek the sun, 
And fade in the light he scatters. 
To the Daisy. 
Bright dower, whose home is everywhere! 
A Pilgrim hold in Nature’s care, 
And oft, the long year through, the heir 
Of joy or sorrow, 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 
The forest through! 
And wherefore? Man is soon deprest; 
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 
Does little on his memory rest, 
Or on his reason; 
